


Dormez-vous?

by hato



Series: Untitled Series [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has never seen Sherlock sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dormez-vous?

**Author's Note:**

> \- Completely silly. Happens Season 1, between Ep1 and Ep2. 
> 
> \- Dedicated to my Lexlor :D 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.

John has never seen Sherlock sleep.  
  
He knows Sherlock does sleep; he’s still human, after all. It’s a biological necessity. But John has never caught him in the act, as it were. Never. The few times John has witnessed his flatmate unconscious there has always been a bad fall or blunt object involved.  
  
It still amazes him how, during a case, Sherlock seems to be constantly alert, always awake and usually mobile and often enthusiastically talkative without pause. After a few months of cohabiting, John decides the many long, thoughtful silences must actually be an almost trance-like state for Sherlock (this seems to be confirmed each time John returns from the shopping and discovers that once again Sherlock has not noticed his absence). Not sleep, exactly, but enough for his flatmate to recharge and keep going during his endurance challenging cases.    
  
So John is not surprised when he comes downstairs earlier in the morning than he normally cares to after a horrendously long night of chasing thugs along the bank of the Thames,  to find Sherlock reclining on the sofa. T-shirt, pyjama pants, open dressing gown. Eyes closed, steepled fingers resting on his chin.  The day’s papers spread out on the coffee table. This is expected. This is normal.  
  
John finishes his morning routine in the bathroom. Slips into pants and vest because summer in London isn’t nearly as hot as summer in Afghanistan but as his American counterparts on base had often joked,  _“ But it’s a dry heat.”_    Last night’s rain is lingering in the air, the humidity lending its own brand of sweaty discomfort.    
  
Sherlock is still on the sofa, unmoved.  
  
John doesn’t bat a lash. Is merely happy that Sherlock isn’t bored and whinging in that annoying way of his. A voice that low should never resemble a spoiled brat’s, as far as John is concerned. He enters the kitchen and goes about making breakfast. Toast and beans. Coffee, needed after last night. John groans, rolls his aching shoulder in a full rotation.  He takes a plate of food to the table, sets it down with a mug of coffee. Takes a few of the papers and barely glances at Sherlock. John knows he can neither force nor coerce his flatmate into eating. The coffee will most likely be taken, at least.  Sherlock rarely turns down beverages.  
  
Taking his own plate and cup to the partners’ desk, John settles in with the newspapers to enjoy a quiet breakfast...  
  
Hours pass. Uneventfully. Peacefully.  
  
No calls. No texts. No buzzes.  
  
Nothing but the occasional rustle of the papers morphing into the slow, light tapping of computer keys.    
  
John sprawls happily in his chair, laptop warming the tops of his thighs. He’s returning emails. Replying to comments on his blog. Idly surfing rugby sites.    
  
Perfectly content when he hears a small sound from the sofa.  
  
John ignores it. Too accustomed to Sherlock mumbling in thought to no one in particular. He Googles recipes for scones.  
  
Another small noise. Followed by something resembling a groan. John looks up from his laptop, still a bit absent, mind still debating plain scones vs lemon. “ Hmm?”  
  
There’s no reply. Sherlock doesn’t move.  John shrugs and finds a recipe for orange-raspberry scones that he deems much too advanced for his baking skills. He goes back to the lemon recipe, thoughtful.  
  
Sudden movement from the sofa. John jerks his head up just in time to see Sherlock’s long arm fall from its perch on his chest. Limp, lifeless. Knuckles barely brushing the floor.  The sight is a bit disturbing. John swiftly puts his laptop aside and crosses the room.  
  
A string of semi-intelligible words spills from Sherlock’s mouth as John bends over the supine figure, reaching for the fallen hand. Presses two fingers to the inside of Sherlock’s wrist, silently measuring his pulse.  Counting the steady beats just under the skin.  John is relieved by the normal heart rate, the healthy color of Sherlock’s cheeks, the temperature of his forehead when he carefully lays a hand under the unruly mop of hair.  
  
And then John is completely shocked and awed and somewhat amused by the realization that Sherlock is asleep.  Completely, utterly asleep.    
  
Dark curls wild against the cushion. Thin sheen of sweat on pale skin. Full lips parted slightly.  
  
… He’s amazing.  
  
John chews on his lower lip. Feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck. He’s not exactly sure why.  
  
There’s no time for John to ponder his reactions. Sherlock is mumbling again, voice quiet and scratchy.  And yet, almost childlike in its pitch and the slight wavering at the end of what sounds like a question in-  
  
French. Sherlock is speaking French. In his sleep. Of course. John is not nearly as surprised as he thinks he should be.  He recognizes about one out of every seven words. It’s been a long time since his secondary school language classes.  
  
Mostly, what catches John’s attention is  _s’il vous plait_. Repeated over and over, in a begging, pleading tone.  
  
 _Please, please, please..._  
  
It’s heartbreaking to listen to that normally arrogant, deep voice reduced to a pitiful moan, harsh panting.  To watch the elegant face twisted in open vulnerability, the slender fingers twitch on his chest. To not understand enough of the words to know precisely how to respond.  
  
John sinks onto the rug, side pressed against the sofa. Concerned. Wanting to help. Desperately wanting to help. He carefully pets the hand resting over Sherlock’s erratic heartbeat. And struggles to remember that stupid language he’d never had any reason to learn properly.  
  
“ Je... je suis John.” Quietly, nearly a whisper. Not wanting to wake the man who is so obviously exhausted.  Just wanting to distract, to divert the nightmare.  This technique has worked for John in the past, both to ease the bad dreams of -and to torment- his fellow soldiers, as young males are apt to do in close quarters. “ Je suis John. J'habite à Londres.”   The two phrases beaten into him. Very hard to forget. Even now, near his forties, with his head full of Pashto and a generous sprinkling of Dari.  “ Je suis John. J'habite à Londres.”   John repeats it several times. As a reply to Sherlock’s mutterings. As a filler for the quiet moments between. As a way for Sherlock to hear his voice and hopefully be comforted.  “ Je suis John. J'habite à Londres.”  His French instructor would be appalled by his accent.  
  
But it seems to be working.  
  
Sherlock looks confused even in sleep, some of the pained tension leaving his face, smoothing the lines by his mouth. “ … John?”    
  
“ Oui.” Another word recalled due to intense repetition in his youth. “ Je suis John.”  
  
Rapid fire. Questioning. Desperate. Almost panicked.  
  
John doesn’t understand a word of it. “ Uh... J'aime omelettes au fromage?”  Holds his breath. He’s just about reached the full extent of his French.  Other than singing _ Aloutte_ or _ Frere Jacques_ .  
  
He watches the changing emotions sweep over Sherlock’s face. First tightening the lines between his brows. Then relaxing, his features softening into an almost smile. “ Omelettes?”  
  
John grins in return, unseen. “ Oui. Omelettes au fromage.”  Lets his hand still on Sherlock’s, very,  very lightly covering it.  
  
Sherlock actually nods. “ Fromage-” is the only word John interprets before Sherlock’s speech disintegrates into slurred mutterings that John doesn’t think he’d understand even if his friend was speaking the Queen’s English.  Probably a lecture on the various cheeses of Great Britain. Or perhaps an old case where cheese was the murder weapon. Death by cheese. John snorts at the possibilities.  
  
It’s not long before Sherlock settles back down. His words trail off. His breathing evens out. His fingers stop twitching.  
  
John spends a few moments just... looking. Then hefts himself up with a stifled groan (he is too old to be sitting on the hard floor for extended periods of time) and shuffles back to his chair. Back to his  laptop and rugby news and scone recipes.  
  
And for the rest of the afternoon, whenever Sherlock begins mumbling in his sleep, John very quietly begins singing.  “ Frer-e Jac-ques, Frer-e Jac-ques... Dor-mez vous? Dor-mez vous?...”  
  
 **end**

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos', and comments!!! The encouragement is tremendous :)


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